The Adopted Young Beast
by Punzie the Platypus
Summary: Jo and Laurie find a poor hurt puppy after a bad storm. He is adopted into the March household to the delight of some, and the displeasure of others. He's such a lovable thing, though, that it doesn't take long for him to win over the displeased hearts.


**_Soli Deo gloria_**

 **DISCLAIMER: I do NOT own Little Women.**

Jo's womanly and adventurous little heart was immediately applied to; she heard, somewhere along the curb of the road leading home from the market, the pathetic little cry of a pitiable bark.

Jo stopped short, causing Teddy on her arm to almost fall headlong into a deep puddle set before him in a divot in the road. "Jo! What's up?" he exclaimed, righting himself and almost overturning her basket full of errands done on her arm.

"Did you hear that, Laurie?" Jo demanded. She grew quiet again, and Laurie had the good sense to do the same. Again it came, like the sad cry of a far away bird, only squeakier, sadder, and much nearer.

"If I'm not wrong, those are the whimpers of a puppy," Laurie said cautiously. But Jo had already left the weight of the basket on his linked elbow and gone prowling like a sniffing bloodhound around the dirt-encrusted banks of the road. A fierce rainfall that had lasted off-and-on but mostly on for three days had come to a close like a dripping pump that morning, resulting in Jo's determination to make it to the market in place of Beth. Neither quiet, frail little Beth or letter-hungry Meg, usually so guarding and protective and protestive, offered much of an argument.

"Did you hear it on the way here?" Laurie wondered, now stepping from a spot where his boots were sinking and proceeding to imitate Jo in looking like a intently-searching wild man out of his wits.

"I don't know. We were having such chummy talks, and the roar of the river was very loud, and still is, and perhaps there isn't a thing here at all but my imagination, and it sometimes runs quite rampart and talks over my otherwise common sense, as you know, Teddy—" Jo peered around the roadside brambles and thickets, the clumping weeds and patches of three-leaved clovers bent over with the weight of rain driven down their necks. But then, just as she'd made the decision to shrug her shoulders and saunter back home in the rain-soaked air with Laurie, that same cry for help, like the cry of a still-hopeful but sad soldier on the battlefield, flooded her ears.

She saw a little rock a foot or two from her feet, like a rock that usually resided in a creek but was brought ashore by the river's overflowing banks. She hurried to it and forgot about everything and knelt in the mud over a little muddy morsel.

"Teddy!" she called, once she found her voice.

Laurie saw her knees in the mud and hurried to her. "What did you find? Is it a wounded animal?"

He looked past her shoulder and her wondering eyes at him to see a little scrap of muddied hide and flesh murmuring and whimpering like a child against the rock. "It _is_ a little puppy," he breathed.

"Poor thing must've got caught in the deluge, maybe in the river, and got swept to a world that he knows not and not knows him," Jo said quietly. Her fingers stalled over a bit of blood leaking from his leg. "Have you a hanky or something large and sheet-like in your pocket, Teddy?"

Laurie pulled his pockets out but nothing of use just then resided in them, to his dismay. At this moment he wished to be as of much help as possible and he was none.

"Well, there's only one thing to do. We must save him. I don't know if I can find this spot again and I won't lose it now," Jo said. Before Laurie could protest, she pulled her apron off from under her coat and wrapped the little pile of misery in it, cradling his head and favoring his leg.

"Jo, be careful! He could bite you. He could be scared and lash out like a wounded animal and then your mother will have my head," Laurie warned cautiously.

"As if Marmee would have your head," Jo tsked dismissively, wrapping the puppy up like she used to wrap up homemade dolls to be like babies. "He couldn't bite me, for he's too weak. But then even if he could, he _wouldn't_. He's too grateful be out of the mud." Jo cuddled him and then laid him gently among the packages of her wide basket. Amongst piles of thread, packaged tea, John Brooke's letter to Meg, and some salt pork for the week, all the pup could do was weakly sniff at the meaty package before laying his head down.

"Meg will kill you for putting him in there," Laurie mentioned as Jo fawned over the ugly puppy and he set his elbow in hers again.

"Meg can certainly try, but I've learned merely mentioning a letter from Brooke will overwhelm her every other thought and sense," said Jo a little coolly, a little bitterly, a little cruelly.

And so they marched home to hear the trumpets sound at their arrival and the cries of amazement at their three-figured entrance.

Meg, however soothed by the offering of the letter in Jo's hand, couldn't stop staring at the puppy. She sat down abruptly in her chair, her sewing forgotten, her mouth gaping open. Amy actually shrieked when she saw tiny black eyes and an investigative little tongue sticking out from among the knitting needles and rind of cheese. Beth got up from her window seat, leaving behind her needlework to soak in the white sunlight, and came to run a helpful hand along the limp head.

"Josephine March, what has got into that head of yours now?" Meg asked feebly.

"I found him on the side of the road, and since I don't make it a habit of mine to leave tiny, helpless creatures to die, I brought him home. Take the letter, Meg," Jo said firmly. Jo remained holding out the letter as Laurie and Beth whisked the basket and its contents into the kitchen.

Meg pressed her lips firmly together and stiffly took the letter. "Can any pleading help my case?" she asked coldly.

Jo folded her arms with a toss of her head. "I don't know why you'd be pleading against helping the poor thing."

"It's a dirty little dog! It could be sick or dying—or it could bite you! Jo, haven't you any common sense?"

"Yes, I do. My common sense says that it is cruel to leave him to die. Common sense also dictates that he must have a suitable bath and something to eat, which I will tend to. See what Brooke has to say. He's far more interesting to you than I am." Jo left in a flounce of skirts after her helpers and Meg sat helplessly in the seat.

The little thing was washed gently in the wash pan full of warm water. Beth, timid, hiding in the background Beth, took charge. Her gentle hands, careful with a need and soft with animals, drew no pain from the little hide as she washed away the grime and the blood. All this revealed was a mangled little hide actually the same color of the dirt washed away from it.

"What sort of breed is he, Laurie?" Jo asked, once the pup had been rinsed and then laid in a clean towel in Beth's arms. His little tongue expressed his gratitude happily as he, without reserve, licked affectionately at Beth's tender fingers.

Laurie's boyish heart sighed as he too pet the little head. "He's a mixed breed, I think, Jo. He's small and has a muddy color but doesn't have any of the defining qualities of any particular breed I can think of."

"A mutt, you say?" Jo joined in this petting. The little mite licked her hand. "What kind of a name does this little mutt get, Beth, dear?"

"Horatio," Beth said simply. "For he will be a good friend."

Jo and Laurie looked at each other and withheld twin bouts of laughter. Such a name could easily have come from the conniving, literary mind of Jo, but for it to come straight from the heart of Beth was a surprise that would spur on a burst of laughter. Still, their lips were sealed, to preserve Beth from embarrassment, and therefore that evening, when Marmee came home from her bandages, she and Mr. March were presented a case for Horatio with Jo and Laurie as his loyal defendants and lawyers. Even poor Hannah, looking on from the kitchen, gave a call for the keep of the mite; "He's so little and dirty and small, ya can't turn the mite outta doors. Look at how he raises poor Miss Beth's spirits. That ain't nothing, ma'am."

Their consent to his stay was given, if his owner was not found. So Jo and Laurie canvassed the neighborhood and beyond but found no grateful owners. Horatio was theirs.

Though Jo had saved his life, Beth became the great benefactress of Horatio. Jo had Teddy and Amy had her arts and Meg had her John but Beth had her Horatio. When a lover is referred to as a 'lovesick puppy', it meant that they trailed behind their girl with a heart full of love that shone in their eyes; that same could be said of Horatio. He grew a bit every day, especially under the cuddles and cares of his doting mistress. Her little heart had longed for some creature after her poor birdie had died from regrettable neglect, and now her affections were wholly claimed by Master Horatio, what with his affectionate tongue and demands for pets and faithful little trot and equal love for her.

Beth and Horatio became a familiar pair; they went to market together, Horatio as a pup in Beth's basket, peeking out to wag his tail and greet new people; then as a dog, walking behind her and laying his cheek against the palm of friends. They were a common sight together; if the butcher didn't see Horatio with Beth, he inquired after her. If Horatio had decided to take a lone exploration, people would ask him, as if expecting him to answer them back as frankly as could be, Where was his young mistress?

Jo had the hand of saving his life; Laurie liked him; Beth loved him; Mr. Lawrence liked a good, well-trained dog that could be counted on; Hannah, "As long as he don't bite or steal from the kitchen, he can stay as long as he cares to, Mrs. March, ma'am"; and Mr. and Mrs. March liked how Beth grew rosy with spirits when he jumped about to please her. Yet still others showed displeasure at his stay. Meg thought him terribly untrained and not at all well-behaved or polite. Amy thought him disgusting, begging and slobbering and misbehaving. When Aunt March heard of his existence, she waved her cane at Jo and scolded her for her impulsive thoughtlessness. To this Jo tossed her pretty head and said, "I wouldn't have the blood of an innocent dog on my hands." (Aunt March bemoaned her lack of respect for her elders.)

In the end, two of these three battles were won. First Amy was reconciled to him by a chance. One rainy day she decided to work on her charcoal paintings, but for the life of her she couldn't find her charcoal pieces. She searched to the point of working herself into tears the entire house, climbing the stairs twice-over, running over past footsteps. Finally she collapsed on the cellar steps and let the sobs hitching in her throat escape.

Horatio came tripping down the stairs and laid his bare head on her lap. She recoiled; "Go away, you unfeeling beast! I don't want to pet you!"

Horatio stood up and whimpered. Somehow, in some way, he knew what she desired, and by some instinct, barked loudly.

"Oh, shut up! How my head aches!"

He wouldn't shut up. He continued barking until she stood up to chase him away, rivers of tears marking her face. He went upstairs and she went after him. She followed him, calling after him to stop barking, and stopped short to see him next to a little side table lost in a corner of the house; on its low shelf was her well-used collection of charcoal pens.

She suddenly recalled putting them there; yesterday she'd sat on the floor and worked away on a paper, her charcoals on the table. The call to a picnic out on the hill had brought her away. She'd completely forgotten about it. Horatio hadn't.

Amy, of her own accord, hugged his shoulders. Jo saw the sight and left without saying a word, lest the act be accounted as witnessed.

Then, to win over Meg: it was a dark, stormy night. The girls with their parents felt especially grateful for their snug house, warm hearth, and shelter from the storm in the presence of their loved ones. They sat in their chairs in their parlor, each one at busy at their especial craft. All excepting Horatio. Some ill-ease seemed to brew in his soul. He scratched at the front door and murmured worriedly, sounding as if he wished more than ever the ability to speak as his people did.

"That dog is scratching up the front door. Someone let him out or he'll misbehave on the carpet," Meg said, sniffing as she poked a needle through a tablecloth seam.

"'That dog' just went out. Beth, didn't he? What's up with him? Is it the storm?" Jo wondered, switching tones in talking to one sister, then to another.

Beth put aside her own needlework and appraised Horatio worriedly, drawing down to his side and looking at him as if she also wished he could speak plainly. "I don't know. Oh, Jo, is it the storm?"

"It must." Jo made the firm decision. "I will let him out, Beth. It's what he wants."

"But the storm—the rain—what if he gets lost or struck by lightning? Why does he want out there? It's dangerous," Beth whispered softly. Even as she murmured these words, she patted Horatio's head as a mother letting a beloved son go in his own way.

Jo let him out, and he dashed into the hectic chaos of the storm.

Beth returned to her seat with a disturbed spirit. Jo exchanged a firm nod with the concerned looks from both her parents.

Silence reigned, save the crackle of the fire. Beth could no more pick up her needle. Jo's heel tapped against the floor impatiently. Even Amy looked worried and couldn't do anything. Meg resolutely used her needle, focusing solely on it while her family fell idle around her.

Suddenly such a barking erupted from behind the closed door. Jo ran to it with almost alarming speed. She opened it to reveal a dog as dirty as the day she found him and a well-worn face that was familiar and older all the same.

"John Brooke?" Jo gasped.

Her family fell in behind her. Meg sobbed as John was brought in and laid on the sofa. Towels and hot water and tea and welcome tears and cries of joy were everywhere.

The story came out in gasps between breaths and gazes at Meg. John Brooke had been discharged from the army on the honorable account of a bad injury. His letter to Meg relating his return obviously hadn't been received. He'd telegrammed from the departing station but the storm made any drive to pick him up unthinkable. His stubbornness to see his engaged overcame his common sense, and he'd gone out in the storm for home. His limp didn't, as expected, aid him, and he became dangerously lost in the dark and flowing water. The dog had come, and glad to find _something_ warm and alive, he'd let himself fall completely to the mercy of the animal. With a firm and unrelenting hold on his collar, John let Horatio take him to shelter, and Horatio took him home.

The only time Meg left John's side was to hug that dirty, lovable dog.

Alas, there was no heartwarming gesture to the benefit of Aunt March that won her over to Horatio's side. Nor did Horatio ever do some great deed. He was not a dog from storybooks that saved babies from burning houses or led one lover to meet their other. No. Over his life he was a simple dog, a lover of the hearth, Jo's romps, Beth's affection, and pets from all Marches.

He required nothing more. He was a simple dog—a simple, muddy, lovable dog.

 **Thanks for reading!**


End file.
